


Hands Upon A Flickering Flame

by d00mface



Category: League of Legends
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, failed comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-23 14:40:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17685395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/d00mface/pseuds/d00mface
Summary: In the shadows of a dead empire the starchild and a fallen god-warrior meet.





	Hands Upon A Flickering Flame

**Author's Note:**

> Soraka and Aatrox are two of my favorite champs so I wanted to write something short that involved both of them! (Takes place some time before current day if that's not readily obvious.)

Cloaked in the armor and fabrics of a long dead empire Soraka trudged through the sands; urging herself to move faster as wind whipped her coattails. Though the sun hung high and blistering now, the gusts that ferociously battered Soraka told her that this would not last for long. Already imposing thunderhead clouds began to form; it would not be long before a sandstorm pushed through.

 

Pushing dark hair out of her face she moved onward.

 

The weather in Shurima was wild and unpredictable to the inexperienced, but Soraka had been settled here long enough to have seen the signs of storm from miles away. And yet, here the celestine was; caught out in the early throes of the tempest; eyes darting around, frantic.

 

Soraka’s ears perked upwards.

 

A low moan rose over the sound of the wind.

 

There it was.

 

Sky darkening, rumbling; Soraka forced herself to go against the wind and towards the sorrowful sound. She had felt this one’s pain from a distance; it ached, it burned, it was all encompassing, and hard to fully explain with words. It was difficult to handle even for one who was once celestial. Soraka could not let them suffer; storm or no storm.

 

The smell of rotting flesh reached Soraka before she saw the suffering soul. Her pace quickened as she moved to his side. Pain rolled off of him in waves, enough to make Soraka feel ill; yet still she placed her hands upon him. His skin sloughed off of his bones, bubbling, as steam rose from his crumbling form. He burned to the touch yet she refused to pull away.

 

Another moan escaped him, mournful and rattling.

 

“I’m here,” Soraka’s hands began to glow. His mind resisted her at first, but after a brief fight he relented; far too exhausted to combat against her healing magic. For this Soraka was thankful; it was nearly impossible to heal someone who did not want to be healed. Muscles re-attached themselves to bone, skin oozing back into place as the magic swirled around Soraka’s hands.

 

The healer gasped sharply.

 

Though Soraka winced, she kept her hands firmly in place; it felt as though the veins on her hands were being squeezed - like they might burst any moment. Feeling pain with such magic was not foreign to Soraka, but this particular pain was one she hadn’t felt in a long time; the pain of trying to knit flesh back together that had already been reshaped by blood magic, by flesh crafting. It was an uphill battle to force skin and muscle into places they had not been originally intended to go.

 

As Soraka forced flesh back into place her mind couldn’t help but wander… and worry. After all, the only users of blood magic from this part of the world had been the darkin, but... there hadn’t been any darkin left since the end of their terrible war. The aspects had seen to that.

 

Yet now she could feel the celestial magic that roiled within this being; his very soul burned bright with it. No, bright wasn’t quite the right descriptor for this old soul. It flickered, faded; but just when it seemed it might go out it sprung to life once more. It was as though his soul was a trick candle, one that could never fully be blown out.

 

Lost in her thoughts Soraka only now noticed she was being stared at. Bleary eyes of crimson attempted to focus in on her. She moved her hands off of him; bright glitter of her magic still lingering.

 

Soraka spoke quickly.

 

“We must move,” a dense wall of darkness moved towards the pair from the east; the sandstorm was closing in on them. Soraka’s gaze scanned their surroundings; this time in search of shelter.

 

There - she could see a cave not too far away, jutting forth from the dunes. If they were quick, they could make it.

 

Soraka’s patient was already forcing himself to stand upon shaky legs as she turned back to him. Gazing upward only now did Soraka realize how towering his form was; she felt small in his shadow. The large horns upon his head only served to make him seem even taller. Form finely crafted with blood magic; towering and strong - there was no questioning it now.

 

Soraka was dealing with a darkin.

 

There was no hesitation when she reached a hand out towards him, “You will come with me, won’t you?”

 

His smoldering gaze peered down at her; unreadable. It was a sluggish movement, but a finger reached towards the healer; Soraka grasped it. It wasn’t as though she intended to drag him with such a gesture, how could she, but having a hand to hold when you’re healing; doesn’t that feel good? Soraka certainly thought so as the pair fought against the whipping winds to reach their temporary shelter.

 

“You healed me,” those were the first words he’d spoken since they’d entered the cave, breaking the silence that hung between them. The words lacked any of the slurring that might indicate he was still sluggish from his injuries and subsequent healing, “for what purpose?”

 

Soraka tilted her head at the darkin as he sat cross legged across from her. There was accusation in his eyes; someone who had been burned one too many times by a hand that was supposed to be helping.

 

“You were hurting and I wanted to help you,” a gentle smile crossed her features, her voice was earnest, “what other purpose could there be?”

 

The wind howled outside.

 

He stared at her.

 

“Do you not know what I am? I am _darkin_. I am **Aatrox**!” He roared, but just as quickly calmed, “And yet still you healed me. Still, you came to my aid. Do not play me for a fool, woman. I can sense the fading celestial magic upon you and yet... you are no _aspect_.”

 

Aatrox glowered down at Soraka.

 

“My curiosity is what has spared you, strange spirit. Now, what are you and what is it you want from me?”

 

The horned healer shook her head, “I am just... Soraka now, nothing more or less. There isn’t anything I want from you-”

 

“Do not lie -”

 

Soraka placed a hand up, effectively silencing him. He seemed taken aback by her audacity more than anything; snorting and leaning back.

 

“It is true that I once came from the celestial realm, but that was long ago,” Soraka continued, “Though I do not age I am otherwise mortal. I have not associated with those you call ‘aspects’ in many millenia.”

 

A heavy silence hung between the two of them once more; Aatrox seemed to consider this revelation carefully. Soraka’s gaze turned towards the mouth of the cave, not wanting to stare, and instead watching as sand swirled violently outside.

 

“Free me,” His desperate tone snapped Soraka’s attention back to him.

 

Pulling the sword from his back Aatrox slammed it into the cave floor with such force that she thought their shelter might collapse. What luck that it didn’t for Soraka was far too focused on the pulsating heart at the center of the weapon; she might not have noticed even if the cave had begun to collapse.

 

“Free me from this prison,” The desperation in his voice morphed into a growl not unlike that of a cornered animal, “you must! You carry the power of the stars within you. Reverse what the accursed aspects have reduced me to!”

 

Wide eyed Soraka stared as understanding hit her. She had heard that the aspects had dealt with the darkin; though she had never known the exact method. His flickering soul was a beacon at the heart of his weapon; alive but in a cage. Aatrox was the sword, the form she saw before her was stolen flesh crafted with blood magic; everything seemed to click into place.

 

“How horrible,” She murmured. Soraka knew of the atrocities the darkin; knew how they crushed the world under their footfalls but this punishment, it was hard to wrap her mind around. Her golden gaze went from sword, to flesh crafted form, and back again. He truly was a prisoner.

 

“I do not want your pity, woman!” Aatrox snapped, “I want to be freed! Release me from these chains!”

 

Soraka’s frown deepened, but she found herself nodding and rising to her feet nonetheless. Crossing the gap between them she moved not to his body this time, but to the sword that contained his soul.

 

Lilac finger tips danced across the beating heart of the blade; Aatrox leaned forward from where he sat. Was it anticipation? Suspicion? Whatever it was his narrowed gaze was now firmly set upon her.

 

Soraka breathed in.

 

She planted her palms upon the heart of the blade.

 

Soraka breathed out.

 

Magic poured forth from her, enveloping the blade. But just as Soraka was beginning to think that her magic was working something lashed out at her in return. Arcs of blinding white light jumped from the blade; they struck her like whips made of fire, her skin sizzling as they made contact.

 

Screaming, Soraka was sent backwards by the sudden counterattack. Sparks rose off of her as she sat collecting herself on the ground, breathing heavily. The dark hair that once framed her cherubic face began to gray, then fade further still to white. Whatever the aspects had done it was too powerful for her to reverse.

 

The sword was ripped from its place in the ground and Soraka watched as Aatrox shoved it back into its place upon his back. His fists were clenched at his sides, shaking.

 

Before Soraka could offer him any words of comfort the screaming began. Aatrox yelled with such primal force, such volume that Soraka found that she had to grab her ears for fear she would lose her hearing. His fists pounded the cave’s walls and for a flicker of a moment Soraka feared that he would take his frustrations out on her.

 

Thankfully those fears never came to pass.

 

Aatrox’s yelling morphed into a mournful sound before ceasing all together. He hugged himself with his arms as if trying to keep from falling apart. The only sound in the cave was his harsh panting as he began to pace the cave like a lion stalking its prey.

 

Soraka removed her hands from her ears; she didn’t need to have empathetic healing magic to know that something had broken within him in that moment.

 

“So, not even a former celestial can release me from these shackles,” His words felt strangely soft after hearing him scream for so long, his pacing paused. Back to her Aatrox turned his head to where Soraka was still sat stunned upon the floor.

 

“You did your best,” the words were said through clenched teeth, already he moved towards the cave entrance. The sandstorm still raged outside.

 

Soraka got to her feet so quickly her hooves almost caused her to slip upon the cave floor, “Wait!” Arm outstretched she tried to reach the darkin. Was he really going back out into this?

 

Turning his great head towards her once more his red eyes seemed to glow with a torrent of emotions. He glowered and she could sense the pain radiating off of him once more; it was more than just physical this time.

 

He stepped into the swirling sands; form disappearing in the torrent like a shadow dispelled by light. Aatrox was gone.

 

Her outstretched hand limply returned to her side.

 

Soraka hoped he wouldn’t do anything too rash to find his freedom.

 

If only she could have helped him.


End file.
